


For "Real," Real?

by Cannes



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Adult Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, BFF Richie & Stan 4 Ever, Beverly Marsh Knows Everything, Bisexual Richie Tozier, Boss Ass Bitch Eddie Kaspbrak, Celebrity AU, Homophobic Language, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Not Beta Read, Public Relations, Recreational Drug Use, Richie Tozier "Not Dead" Rock Show, Richie Tozier Being an Asshole, Richie Tozier Loves Eddie Kaspbrak, Stan "The Man-ager" Uris, Very Public Relations
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-26
Updated: 2020-05-26
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:07:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24381013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cannes/pseuds/Cannes
Summary: "What if I wrote a song for you?" Richie asked. He was strumming a few chords on his guitar, lazy grin in place while his glasses slipped down his nose.Eddie, ever the professional, firmly clenched his nails into the palm of his hand. "I'd collect on the royalties," he quipped back coolly.Or -- the one where Eddie Kaspbrak takes his job managing the Losers public relations, more specifically their guitarist Richie Tozier, way too seriously.
Relationships: Ben Hanscom/Beverly Marsh, Bill Denbrough/Mike Hanlon, Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier, Patricia Blum Uris/Stanley Uris
Comments: 5
Kudos: 21





	For "Real," Real?

**Author's Note:**

> Working title.  
> Might change it later. Might not.

In public, Eddie was a vodka soda kind-of-guy.

It was clean in that you didn't have any additionally calories, save the lime or lemon and the actual alcohol; refreshing in the same way that plain Perrier could bring life back to your dry tongue after a five minute rant; and -- and this is the most important bit -- it was painfully boring in all respects of look and taste.

Eddie was fond of placing all preliminary judgments on a person solely based on their public drink of choice. What a person chose to indulge in within the private of their own home was their business; Eddie's soda-water was usually replaced with cranberry or orange juice, for instance. But in his experience, the public order really did say a lot about a person.

Martinis (plain, gin. Don't get him started about a dirty martini) was usually reserved for the over 40 years old crowd; firmly set in their ways, bold outwards appearance, but either having battled with insecurities, or still fighting the good fight in their twilight years. However, if the consumer leaned towards a lighter number on the age-scale, then they would at least _act_ like they were 40 years old, know-it-alls. Rich brats with James Bond ideals, usually.

Vodka and Red Bull usually indicated someone with a past substance abuse problem. Someone who excelled in high school, maybe college, and then promptly plummeted in their adulthood. They were fast talkers, but often said very little, and you would have to put in a little work to decipher what was true and what was a lie in the midst of any conversation. They were exhausting, overall.

Single malt drinkers (scotch or whiskey, based on your geographic preference) were mature, refined, and, typically, cynics. They had dry humor, even drier sarcasm, and held the ability to clock your speed before you even got a chance to start the ignition.

White wine and red wine drinkers were both vastly different and also ubiquitously the same. Both were social creatures, always needing to be around people; the extroverts. But Whites were more bubbly and possessed an ease of feigned happiness that Reds just couldn't bother to muster.

Beer was a hard one to peg, because who hadn't grabbed a BudLight from a house party cooler just to have something in their hand at least once? The habitual selection usually meant a less refined pallet, more unsure of themselves, and would over compensate the lack of self security with verbal outbursts. Whereas draft beer drinkers were quiet, critical, and highly opinioned in the way that they trusted their own convictions and would argue them to the death.

The list went on.

Eddie has seen at least every drink order known to man twice; some more than that.

In his line of business, social drinking was the norm. If you were meeting before 11:00AM on a business day, you were grabbing coffee. The second the clock ticked 11:01AM, you were free to go for a mimosa. Anything after 12PM regularly involved the courteous drink or two.

Currently, it was 6:22PM, and Eddie was sat at a corner table in hotel's bar and lounge, safety drink strategically ordered and after a few customary sips, placed to the side and towards the wall to be safely out of the way for when his company arrived.

First meetings, especially with a potential client, were all about appearances. Of course, Eddie's whole life revolved around appearances, but no other interaction was as vital as the first impression. They were unforgiving. You hardly ever got a second chance for redemption if you made some off-hand faux pas. These things, even the trivial, were permanent marks on your record and would not fall off or disappear with time. Eddie knew these facts intimately, since he was the one who was usually in charge of smudging the unforgiving evidence. Public Relations erred on the side of re-purposing the truth, not eliminating it all together, after all.

That's why the set-up was crucial. Get ahead of the truth and you can mold it into anything you like. Arrive early, pick the optimum table, have a moment to get settled and scope the place out for potential hiccups, do damage control, if necessary, and then wait.

At exactly 6:29PM, a minute shy of their original meeting time, a sharp business man walked into the lounge, lingered with the maitre d' for a moment, and was promptly escorted over to Eddie, who was already pushing his chair back with a dignified scrape while fastening the middle button of his sports jacket. The smile was plastered on his face with enough time to extend his hand to welcome his company.

"Mr. Kaspbrak?" The man extended his own hand to meet Eddie in a firm greeting. "Stanley Uris. You can call me Stan," he said.

Stanley "Stan" Uris was an average man in stature. He was taller than Eddie by maybe an inch or two -- definitely no taller than 5'11" -- medium build with not too much muscle, not too much fat; attractive face with round expressive eyes and a slanted nose that just screamed _ethic_ in way that came from a third or fourth generation _something_. There was an abundance of light curls resting atop his head and that were obviously styled _just right_ so as to avoid them hanging over his eyes. He wore his smile tight and tired across his mouth, but no less genuine.

Eddie smiled back in kind. "Eddie, please. Nice to meet you, Stan," he said, gesturing for the other man to take a seat.

The two men sat, and the maitre d' delayed just long enough to get a drink order from Stan. He ordered a Johnnie Walker, on the rocks.

"I don't want to take up too much of your time," Stanley began, shuffling an expensive looking portfolio onto the table and arranging it neatly in front of him, pen in hand. Eddie suspected the habit of being ready to jot notes was more than just a nervous tick. "I've heard good things about you for years," he continued "But the fact that Hal Neman still has a career and isn't busting tables after everything that happened last year, both in and outside of the media... Well, that speaks volumes."

Hal Neman... Young kid.... Younger than Eddie's thirty-six, at least. Newly enlisted celebrity after a phenomenal first seasons on some online streaming platform. Fame, if acquired too quickly, was much like an amphetamine; it got you up real quick, but the side effects were fucking _awful_. For Mr. Neman, that meant having a psychotic break down in the middle of a 7/11 and trying to hold up the convenient store with a Hersey's bar.

Eddie rubbed the back of his neck, feigning bashfulness. In truth, the fact that season two of _Heartless_ was airing at all, not to mention in less than two weeks, was a freaking miracle of Eddie's own design. "He's a good guy. You know firsthand how this city tries its best to ruin people."

The lengthy sigh that escaped Stanley's mouth indicated years of _I know_ that needn't be verbalized. "Or maybe," said the talent manager, twirling the pen between his fingers. "Maybe some people have always had a tendency for self-destruction, and this city just offers a quicker and more creative way for self-actualizations."

Out of politeness, Eddie quirked his head to the side in mock interest. Really, though, he had already pegged how this meeting was going to go from the moment Stanley Uris' secretary had called Eddie's own secretary and the calendar invitation was simultaneously e-mailed to both parties.

Stanley was too emotionally invested in these clients.

Period.

End of story.

No epilogue or sequel.

The jury didn't even have to deliberate in order to reach the verdict.

Talent managers, per their contracts, had a duty to protect the interests of their clients. But Eddie had heard the stories circulating among his peers about Mr. Uris' desperate attempts to contract with a publicist, or public relations specialist. Hell, he'd heard that Stanley was running the PR himself for the last few months after the _Losers_ were dumped by four consecutive agencies. Any other manager would have cut their losses and moved on. The fact that Stanley was willingly being tombstoned obviously meant personal interest instead of professional.

"I'm sure you already know the issues that we're facing," Stanley began, leaning back in his chair slightly to look at Eddie down his long nose. "I have a drummer who broke apart the marriage of one of the leading fashion enterprises in the last ten years, a guitarist who is firmly against being politically correct and may be developing some addict tendencies, and my _plat de résistance_ of a lead singer who has had the disappearance of his baby brother floating with him since thirteen, and now the cold case being opened back up for further investigations..." Eddie could feel Stanley reading his face. Studying it for the slightest crack under the weight of what they would be facing. But Eddie was a professional. He did his research before coming; he knew the dirty laundry that Stanley was totting behind him, hoping Eddie would take it for a wash.

Stan continued, "But, they're good. There is real talent between them, in the midst of everything else. They're genuinely good people, all of them. I just don't think anyone wiLL truly realize their potential as a band with all of the other drama circling them until they're airing on a _Where Are They Now?_ TV special."

"Well, to be fair, part of any rock star's legacy is to be a bit of a loose cannon. Sounds like you have three."

The laugh that escape Stan was anything but humored. "Part of the rock star legacy is to get addicted to drugs or alcohol, and the ones that don't die disband and only meet up every ten years for their reunion tour," he said. "And after the last debacle I'm having a hard time booking press, and without press they're going to be stuck doing openers and third stage music festivals."

"You've had PR before, right?"

Eddie knew that they'd had a public relations person before. They'd had a lot. Greg Delaney being the last one. He was also the stepping stone to stardom for B-list celebrities. You went with Delaney if you were trying to make it big in the business. He was like an entrepreneur or an angel investor in that he liked to work on a project just long enough for it to get going, and then release it to someone else so that he start the process over again. His clients were all virginal in their media records and their antics never surpassed minor possession or a traffic ticket. 

You went with Eddie Kaspbrak if no one else would touch you. You went with Eddie as a last resort; sometime between rehab and jail, or right when you teeter between B-list and C-list, but before black-list.

"He fired us after the Rolling Stones interview," Stanley said.

Eddie heard about that. The Rolling Stones interview, the one Greg Delaney had quit on, was more to do with a colorful rant from Richie Tozier after the interviewer asked Ben Hanscome about his relationship to Beverly Marsh. The interview was never published, obviously. But Eddie had it from a good source that there was a good amount of language directed at the young interviewer. It had apparently been his second day on the job, too.

"What do you have booked for the next six months?" he asked

Stanley flipped through his phone, but Eddie could see that the real math was happening as he flipped through his mental calendar in much the same way that Eddie would if posed with the same question. Busy on the 19th, traveling on the 25th, some dinner with some Big Wig on the 30th... The usual....

Stan rattled off some dates and times and press and recording slots that they had managed to solidify -- all very underwhelming for a band about the release their second studio album in the wake of their first commercial success. Then Stanley mentioned the upcoming tour, and Eddie immediately perked up.

"Is touring usually an issue?"

Touring was a make it or break it for some people; especially those that had problems sticking with the status quo on a typical schedule. The lack of boundaries, the semi-antimony that came with being on the road and in a new place every night. It was usually the recipe that produced most short-comings.

"The usual." For a band consisting of three men, all in their early to mid thirties read to Eddie as: a lot of girls, a lot of drinks. Maybe some drugs. "Nothing outside what every else is already doing," Stanley said. "Ben is tethered to Ms. Marsh, so there's the need for added security when they're together. Bill is quiet and usually keeps to himself between shows." Stan looked between Eddie and the wall behind Eddie's head a few times, a ghost of a genuine smile turning up the corner of his mouth. "Richie is the antagonist on tour."

Eddie had experience with it all before. Affairs, broken marriages, addictions. He would be lying if he said that he'd had a client who'd been questioned about the disappearance of his own brother while just a teenager, but he'd read the police reports, the mysterious disappearances of six other kids all in the span of a year. That was a good angle for sympathy, and it was a little surprising that no one was aiming it that way yet.

"I can probably get us back into Rolling Stones." Eddie wasn't talking himself or his abilities up; he had already made a call before coming to this meeting to make sure he had something to work with before agreeing to a project like this. "But, let's book that for after the album's release. Instead of a band expose it can be an album review; less invasive questions. Honestly, we could just write a response and send it to them, little to no facial interaction."

The pen that Stanley had been holding fell limply onto the blank paper. "You'll take us on?"

"I just finished one passion project, why not?" Stan was already picking up his pen again as Eddie rattled off the list of essentials. "We're going to need to discuss the rap sheet, though; for everyone. Any convictions? Addictions? Past relationships and with whom? Those kind of things."

"Absolutely."

"And then you'll need to schedule a time for me to meet with them all. The sooner the better, if you can make it work. We have a lot of lost ground to make up."

Stan was good at multi-tasking, it seemed. Already having his phone in hand to rearrange appointments. "How's tomorrow afternoon. Say, 11:00AM?"

"I'll clear my calendar."

Stan laid his pen down square in the middle of his portfolio and rested his hands flat on the table top like he was grounding himself. "I don't want this to come across odd," he ventured, eyeing Eddie carefully. Not so much looking at him like he was trying to find something in Eddie's own expressions, but more like he was trying to telepathize his feelings without directly saying them. "We're like a family, Eddie. A strange, dysfunctional family who has more issues than talent sometimes. But we all care about one another. I wouldn't be putting my neck on the line like this if they were bad people."

Eddie preferred to not mingle business and personal, personally, but he could empathize with Stan's situation, at the very least.

He wasn't cruel, for god's sake.

But what Stan was subtly asking him/ not asking him -- it was, frankly, unnecessary.

Eddie didn't need to adopt some rag-tag, wannabe rock stars as friends just to do his job adequately. He was perfectly capable of running defense without an emotional commitment to motivate him. In fact, in Eddie's experience, it was easier to go in free of any biases, get the job done, and leave without so much as a feeling of self-satisfaction to congratulate his efforts.

Stan may have gotten too invested, but if that was a requirement of being on the team, Eddie may not be the man for the job.

"Sometimes," he began, carefully, "It's easier to coach from the sidelines than from the field."

Stan nodded, slowly, grabbing his untouched drink from the table and swirling the contents gently. Like a man who had once held a similar conviction at one point in time, and now could only look back on it with sage reminiscence.

"Wait until you meet them." Was all the talent manager said, downing his drink.

**Author's Note:**

> For the record, vodka sodas are as basic as they come. i understand this sad and undeniable fact of life.  
> But, also for the record, i drink vodka sodas. Specifically, vodka soda with a lime and in a tall glass, because the short little ones they normally serve them in are gone too soon and make me spend too much money.  
> I DO NOT BELIEVE THAT YOUR CHOICE OF DRINK REFLECTS TOO MUCH ON YOUR PERSONALITY. Except red bull and vodka. That one is true.
> 
> This kind of just happened. I want a rock star AU SO. BADLY. IT. HURTS. 
> 
> I'm not equipped to write this fic and -- as per usual -- I did not outline anything. 
> 
> IDK, man. 
> 
> I just... don't know....


End file.
